Page 29 of The Sound of Sleighbells

“Damn it, Ed, you owe me something,” Digger said. “If you can’t make it worth my time, I’ll throw up my hands and leave town, and there’ll be nothing you can do about it.”

“All right,” Ed said. “I’ll give you a hint. There were two packages, not one. They’re hidden in two different places. The first is somewhere inside that old brown station wagon of Ruth’s. Bring me another report in the next few days, and I’ll tell you where to find it.”

“What about the other package?”

“All in good time, little man. Keep doing your job and I’ll let you know.”

Before Digger could reply, the line went dead.

Never mind, he told himself. At least he had something to go on. But finding the stash in Ruth’s beat-up station wagon was going to take some planning. Ed must’ve figured that if the police got wise about the drugs, at least they wouldn’t think to look in his wife’s vehicle.

Leaving the phone booth, Digger climbed onto the Yamaha, which he’d “borrowed” from outside a smoke shop in Fort Worth. Before going back to the ranch, he swung past the house he’d learned was Ruth’s. The station wagon was parked in the driveway. The old clunker probably wasn’t even locked. But rummaging through it here would attract too much attention. He would have to watch for a less risky time in a less exposed place.

He’d had a crush on Ruth back in the day. But she’d been Judd’s girl; and a homely little nobody like him didn’t stand a chance with a beauty like her. He still fancied her, but some things never changed. When he’d greeted her at the town park, she’d looked at him as if he was something she’d cleaned off the sole of her shoe.

She’d bewitched Ed McCoy, too. The fool was obsessed with her. But that was his problem. All Digger cared about now was finding Ed’s cocaine stash and selling the white powder for enough money to set himself up somewhere beyond the reach of the law.

Twenty minutes later, he drove through the ranch gate and cut the Yamaha’s noisy engine. The black pickup truck was in the shed, the workshop’s high windows brightly lit. Judd must be working late.

Digger would have welcomed the chance to sit down with his former friend and talk over old times, maybe learn more about Ruth. But Judd was a loner, and he’d made it clear that he didn’t want to be disturbed—didn’t even want his old buddy in the house. Any notion of friendship was out the window.

For now, there was nothing to do but stretch out in the bunkhouse with a joint, a cold beer, and the girlie magazine he’d bought under the counter at the convenience store.

His pack was on the bed, the single long hair he’d laid over the flap still in place. At least Judd hadn’t been checking his personal things. He hadn’t found the Ziploc bag of weed or the 9mm Glock Digger kept wrapped in a dirty undershirt. Parolees weren’t supposed to have guns or drugs, but this was a free country—and as soon as he got his hands on Ed’s stashes, he’d be where no damn parole officer could ever find him again.

* * *

Judd was making his morning coffee when the phone rang. The caller was Helen Wilkerson. “Hello, Judd,” she said. “Do you still need to talk to the sheriff?”

“I do. Thanks.”

“If you don’t mind holding for a few minutes, I’ll put you in the queue. He’s got a lot of catching up to do this morning.”

“That’s fine. I’ll hold—and Helen?”

“Yes?”

“I was just wondering about his wife and baby. Is everything all right?”

She laughed. “Everything’s fine, thank goodness. Wynette gave birth to a feisty little six-pound boy. He was three weeks early and needed to go into an incubator overnight, so there was some worry. But he’s doing great now. Eating like a champ. Hang on, I’ll put you on hold.”

Judd willed himself not to watch the clock as the minutes crawled past. At last, the young sheriff’s voice came on the line.

“What can I do for you, Judd?”

“First of all, Buck, congratulations on your new son,” Judd said.

“Thanks. Being a dad will take some getting used to. But I’m sure it’ll sink in once we take the little guy home.”

“I can’t imagine how that feels,” Judd said. “I don’t suppose I’ll ever know. But to get to the reason I called you. I need a quick check on a visitor of mine, an old friend.”

As briefly as he could, Judd summed up Digger’s story. “He claims to be on parole, but I don’t trust him. For now, all I need from you is a check for any warrants. And I need to get the VIN on the bike—I should be able to check that online. I don’t want to be a Judas, but you know my history. If he’s a fugitive, I can’t afford to have him around.”

“And if he’s clean?”

“Then he’s my problem. I’ll think about giving him some help.”

“Got it. I’ll run a check on the name and get back to you. It might take me a few hours. I’ve got a lot on my plate today.”

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